In this chapter titled The Bombardment, the narrative opens with a powerful chorus of unity, describing men from every walk of life—bankers, blacksmiths, painters, and field hands—marching with shared purpose. These men do not crave bloodshed but endure its toll in pursuit of a peace worth sacrificing for. They are driven by an inner fire to extinguish the need for weapons altogether, breaking the symbolic sword into fragments that scatter like dying stars. Their hands, used to tools of craft or commerce, now grip rifles not with pride but with determination to end a cycle they never wished to join. The poetic contradiction at the heart of their mission—waging war to end war—exposes the tragedy of their resolve. Yet there is nobility in their commitment, a solemn dignity in the decision to step into fire with the hope that others may one day live beyond it.

The story then shifts tone and pace, transitioning into the subdued tension of a city waiting beneath overcast skies and falling rain. The streets are quiet, the Cathedral square empty, as the rain streaks down statues and rooftops like tears from stone. The peace is unnatural, filled not with calm but with dread, each drop mingling with dust while distant echoes of bombs roll across the sky. Life pauses. Doors stay shut, curtains drawn, and even the birds seem to have forgotten how to fly. The city is not broken yet—but it is holding its breath, listening. And then, without warning, the moment fractures. Explosions crack through the silence, leaving only ringing ears and the trembling hush of shattered glass.

Inside, the quiet is different—warmed by firelight, scented with old fabric and dried herbs. An old woman, seated with a younger man named Victor, steadies herself as the outer chaos creeps inward. A bomb doesn’t hit their home, but it hits their comfort. The bohemian glass vase, long admired and always protected, topples from the mantel and shatters. It is not the object’s worth that matters—it’s the memory it carried, the stillness it represented. In this single, soundless moment, something beautiful is erased, not by direct violence but by its ripple. The vase, now splintered, becomes a metaphor for every quiet life interrupted by war’s long reach.

Victor doesn’t speak much, and neither does she. Their silence carries more than fear—it holds reverence for what has just been lost, and for what might come next. She does not cry, but the tension in her hand as she sweeps the shards into her apron says enough. This scene doesn’t seek drama; it shows how devastation lands in the smallest corners, where no battle ever reaches. The fire still burns, but it is no longer warm. It simply remains, flickering, as if trying to hold the room together. This is war, too—not the front line, but the living room. And it is here, just as much as in the trenches, that the cost of conflict is counted.

Together, these scenes offer two perspectives bound by a shared truth: that war touches everything. The men on the march may dream of ending violence, but violence moves faster than dreams. It reaches quiet kitchens, deserted streets, cherished objects, and weary hands. In every corner of the city, some part of peace is being tested or lost. Yet still, people endure—not out of hope alone, but because endurance itself becomes a form of resistance. The old woman, sweeping glass without complaint, fights no less bravely than the soldier advancing toward a burning horizon.

The Bombardment does not ask readers to choose between front-line heroism and quiet survival. It invites them to see both as part of the same human struggle—to protect meaning in a world unraveling. The chapter closes not with triumph but with a kind of quiet defiance: a city scarred but still standing, people shaken but still present. War may break glass, but not memory. Not yet.